Today I confided in my brother that I was disappointed in my daughter’s choice of boyfriend. “I’m coming up there, and I’m going to let him know that if he steps out of line I am going to kick his ass” was the immediate reply. Coming from a small, rough steel town my reply wasn’t exactly politically correct... “Don’t you think her father should kick his ass instead?” “No,” he replied with absolute moral certainty. “He’s too close. I should definitely do the ass kicking.”
Perversely, the thought of my brother kicking anyone’s ass made me nostalgic. After my father died, ass kicking became my brother’s modus operandi. I was a rather wild teen who generated plenty of opportunities for my 2-years-older brother to exercise his newfound sense of responsibility. He lurked in the background of my teenage relationships, grading the quality of my choices and taking action when he considered my judgment flawed.
Unfortunately, my judgment seemed to be flawed a lot. My brother was creative in the ways that he scared off my boyfriends. In addition to the classic ass kicking, his techniques ranged from the sideways glance fraught with threat (enough, most times, to do the job) to direct interrogation techniques, to the time he threw a boyfriend over our front porch and into the bushes for attempting a first kiss. Standing on the porch with my brother, watching the now “ex-boyfriend” run off down the street I felt angry, but also completely and utterly safe.
It is truly miraculous that I found a man of whom my brother mostly approved. But I did, and I suppose that I owe a great deal to the, um, “non-verbal guidance” that my brother provided over those teenage years.
My brother’s ass kicking days are likely done. He’s an attorney and a businessman, a gentle father and a sweet and loving husband. But for a moment he reminded me that he will always be my big brother, and will always take care of me and keep me safe.
